My Daughter Didn’t Invite Her Stepfather to the Wedding—Even Though He Raised Her Since She Was Nine. I’m Not Going Either.

My daughter has broken my heart. I thought she knew how to be grateful, that at twenty-five she could distinguish truth from indifference, kindness from selfishness. But her actions proved the opposite—bitter and painful. She didn’t invite my husband Javier, her stepfather, to her wedding. The man who raised her from the age of nine with nothing but love and devotion. Instead, she invited her biological father, Alejandro, who ignored her for most of her life. After that, I have no desire to attend what I now see as a charade of a celebration.

Divorcing my first husband, Alejandro, was as inevitable as a storm after stillness. I endured the last four years of our marriage out of strength—and because his mother, Carmen, constantly begged me to tolerate her useless son. But everything has a limit, and mine came when our daughter, Lucía, turned seven. Her father always neglected us. He only played with her when drunk—until he lost control. He would vanish for days, and when he returned, he imposed his “truth” with shouts and blows, leaving both physical and emotional bruises.

When I discovered he had a mistress, that was the final straw. The thought that another woman believed in his “charm” woke me up. I filed for divorce without looking back. Alejandro didn’t even try to keep the family together—he packed up, smashed the hallway mirror, and left like some melodramatic soap opera hero. Carmen, who once pitied her “poor boy,” turned hostile. She blamed everything on me and began poisoning Lucía’s mind: “Your mother threw out the father who loved you.” A lie—he erased us from his life.

Lucía always favored her father. I was the strict one—the one who raised her, taught her, corrected her. He showed up rarely, with cheap candy and hollow promises. When he came back angry, I was the one who stood between them. In her memory, he’s the hero; I’m the jailer. Trying to explain the truth was useless—Carmen’s poison had already taken hold. Even after her death, Lucía kept idealizing a man who wasn’t worth a dime.

When Lucía was nine, I met Javier in a small town near Valencia. He was kind, dependable, with a warm, gentle smile. I fell in love, and he loved me back. I warned him: “I have a daughter… she might not accept you.” But he didn’t back away. He proposed, fully aware of how hard it might be. And then the storm came: Lucía screamed at him, provoked him. I thought he’d leave—but he stayed. In sixteen years, he only raised his voice twice—and both times for good reason. He took her to competitions, picked her up from parties, paid for her university education… without ever asking for thanks.

During her teenage years, Lucía calmed down. She no longer attacked him, but she never showed gratitude either. I hoped that, with time, she would recognize Javier’s worth—few stepfathers care that much. I knew she kept seeing Alejandro. I stayed out of it, but every birthday broke me: she would wait for his call until midnight… and it never came. Yet she kept waiting, year after year, blindly.

After high school, she moved to another city to study. When she returned, she moved in with her boyfriend from university. Then came the wedding announcement. I was certain Javier would be included. But she left him out. He hid the pain, but I saw his eyes dim. Then Lucía told me, bluntly:

—Dad will be at the wedding. What, you want a circus with Javier there?

I felt fury rise in my chest.

—You’re inviting the man who abandoned you, and excluding the one who raised you? How ungrateful! I’m not going. Go ask your “daddy” for everything now.

She tried to speak, but I shut the door.

At home, Javier asked me to reconsider: “She’s your only daughter. It’s her big day.” But I can’t. She made her priorities clear. We fought for her for years, and she still idolizes the man who walked away. So be it. I wash my hands of it. No more pain. No more disappointment.